


Tear Your Angels Down

by ButDidYouDieTho



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7968703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButDidYouDieTho/pseuds/ButDidYouDieTho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early days of the original Overwatch, Angela and Ana fall into a tempestuous and not altogether healthy relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear Your Angels Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a quick vent piece. Pharah/Mercy is a thing here, but don't expect much of it - this one's 95% about Ana/Mercy. Be warned, it gets a little dark at times.

**2062**

The first time Angela Ziegler encountered Ana Amari since a single brief group photo the day she joined, the young doctor was standing in a doorway leading to the Watchpoint's broad helipad, fists shoved deep in the pockets of her coat. The pad was bathed in artificial light from the landing VTOL, bright enough to drown out the starless darkness of the early dawn, and that, coupled with a late shift and far too much coffee, threatened her with a migraine. She wished bitterly that protocol didn't require a medic on hand for all landings — there were no casualties on board to attend to, not even a case of the flu. Yet here she stood, paying little attention to the crates of supplies being unloaded, the agents trickling down the boarding ramp, nor even the ground crew scurrying like ants around and beneath the great white craft.

Angela might not have even noticed Ana disembarking if not for her thundering laughter, loud even next to the fading roar of the engines. She was surrounded by a small squad of weary-eyed soldiers, each wearing a grin as broad as hers. Angela scanned their nametags and noted that every one of them was returning for the first time from three-year combat tours. Of course, she recognized Ana even without the nametag - she was a living legend, after all, her golden face beaming out of every photograph of the organization's founding members. There was a shining glimmer of triumph in Ana's eyes as they swept over the men and women around her, as if every one of them were her blood brothers and sisters. A massive rifle was slung over her shoulder, and the grey at her temples could scarcely be distinguished from the snow falling on her deep olive beret.

Angela, ever the pacifist determined to save lives, had never held soldiers in especially high regard and her short years at Overwatch had done nothing to change that. She was still a civilian, after all, and she was happy to be exempt from military hierarchy and codes of conduct. And yet, as Ana passed by, she could not stifle a brief, rigid salute. Immediately she chastised herself for it, furious at herself for ever being starstruck, even for a moment. Out of the corner of her eye Ana's gaze fell upon Angela, and in those eyes Angela could see nothing but death.

\---

The sound of raucous laughter and pounding glasses from the mess hall shook the ceiling of Angela's office, as it had nearly every night since the platoon's return. Depletion rates of the Watchpoint's stores of alcohol had increased sharply, showing little sign of slowing, which had left teetotalling Angela unusually anti-social. She'd taken to locking herself in her office, burying herself in paperwork long into the night. Depletion rates of coffee had spiked as a result, too.

The nightly migraine was finally starting to catch up to Angela when her office door slid open. Even in the dim light from the desk lamp, Ana's broad-shouldered silhouette was unmistakable. Angela stood, vaguely irritated at being interrupted.

"I believe I've been putting off my regular examination, Dr. Ziegler."

"And you want to do it _now_ , at two in the morning? There are night nurses on duty—"

"I don't trust them," interrupted Ana in her gruff, accented English. "But I hear you are an expert."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Captain Amari," muttered Angela, shuffling over to the medical counter to retrieve the tools of her trade. Her hand was barely on the overhead cupboard's handle when she sensed Ana close behind her. Too close. Even visibly drunk, the old sniper had managed to cross the room in the span of a heartbeat without a sound. Her breath was uncomfortably hot on the back of Angela's neck, but she dared not turn around; something about Ana's proximity sent waves of pleasant warmth through Angela's skin, and she didn't want to risk losing the feeling just yet.

"Thank Jolly Jack. He's been singing your praises for months," Ana said with something approaching amusement in her voice.

"I— I saved his arm. Some coward sniper got him at a press event last year," Angela half-stammered, half-hissed. Some strange part of her felt she had to make her contempt known.

"My artificial eye does more than help me aim, doctor. Do you know what else it lets me see? Body heat, blood flow, pulse rate.. I can tell a man is thinking of his wife at two hundred meters. Three hundred if he believes her especially beautiful. Up to four hundred I can tell with certainty when someone is lying. What do you think I see now, a hand's breadth away?"

Angela stood rigid, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, even before Ana's arm snaked around her waist. "You.. smell like liquor. And smoke," Angela said softly, far less disgust in her voice than she had intended.

Ana tightened her grip and turned her head just enough to rest the edges of her lips against Angela's ear. "Do you hate me, _ya amar?_ " Ana purred.

Angela's head swam, her eyes falling shut into a numb, tingling haze. She felt almost drugged, yet was acutely aware that it was only her own body betraying her. "Yes," she half-moaned, and in her heart she knew she was answering far more than the single question asked.

"Good girl," Ana said as she sank her teeth into Angela's earlobe, eliciting a tiny whimper.

With all her concentration focused on keeping her knees from buckling, on gripping the counter in front of her and the well-muscled arm around her waist, Angela barely noticed Ana's other hand creeping up her skirt, coming to rest on her outer thigh.

"Do you want me to stop?" Ana asked with an unexpected tone of grave sincerity.

All the reasons to shout 'yes' at the top of her lungs poured through the young doctor's mind, but they were swallowed up as quickly as they'd formed by the yawning, thoughtless void spreading from every point of contact between her and the older woman behind her. She managed, slowly, hesitantly, to shake her head. Within moments she found herself bent fully over the counter, fists clenched, as Ana touched her in ways she could only describe as taking ownership.

She'd nearly drawn blood from where she'd been biting her lip when the last of her composure finally broke and a sharp, breathy moan escaped her lips. Immediately a sun-baked hand clamped across her mouth — she bit one of its fingers in frustration, but this only seemed to produce a grin from Ana, as if almost proud of her tenacity.

"Shh.. not yet, little angel."

When at last Angela slumped to the floor, weak and quivering, her scream still echoed throughout the empty medbay. Ana stared coolly down at the panting young woman, smoothed the blonde's tangled hair, then left without a word.

\---

**2068**

The affair, if it could even be called that, had continued on and off for years — and always when Ana had been drinking. While it never sat quite right with Angela, and they never got along professionally or personally, she was pleasantly surprised by the indifferent decorum Ana maintained in public at all times. The most Angela was ever compelled to do was jab Ana perhaps a little too hard when drawing blood or administering anesthetic, though this, too, always elicited only the same half-proud smirk. And yet, for all her distaste and discomfort, when Ana sometimes went months without speaking to her Angela found herself driving herself and her research forward at a near-reckless pace, always pushing for the next prototype to show off, secretly hoping that it would win Ana's renewed attention. This strategy was not without success.

The last night they spent together, Angela found herself on the floor of Ana's quarters nursing a nasty rug burn and a few dozen fresh marks on her pale skin. Ana stood over her, the devil in her eye and sweat on her brow, when there was a knock on the door. Panic flooded Angela's system as she willed her shaky legs to scurry behind a corner. Ana rolled her eyes and opened the door wearing only a thin sheet hastily wrapped around her torso.

Even from Angela's limited view, she could see Morrison was visibly startled at his second-in-command's sudden immodesty. "You left the officers' mess in a rush, and I thought I heard noises—" He trailed off as his eyes fell upon Angela's scattered clothes. Her stomach twisted into painful knots, confused instincts already begging her to run, or fight. "Oh. You know you're not supposed to bring people onto the base, Amari."

"Sorry Jack, just had to let off some steam," Ana said with a wink. "Won't happen again."

"Good. Transport's leaving at 0700, so make sure your latest chew toy is out before dawn." He turned, paused, looked back over his shoulder with something approaching youthful mischief glimmering in his eye. "What was it this time? Bartender or stripper?"

"Stripper. _Real_ flexible," Ana said, turning her gaze rather unsubtly toward Angela's hiding spot.

An amused grunt and Morrison was gone, but the knots in Angela's stomach had already turned to nausea and waves of shame.

\---

A month later, when news of Ana's presumed death in the field reached the Watchpoint, Angela might have drawn attention for her freshly bloodied knuckles and sunken eyes if the rest of the staff hadn't been so caught up in mourning. She hated Ana for leaving, and hated herself even more for missing her so much. With the smell of funeral incense choking the halls, she quietly slipped away to her dark and cluttered office with a tall bottle of Abarka, sat down, and drank away a decade's worth of vacation days.

\---

**2076**

Once again Angela — now the angel of Mercy, finally a legend in her own right under no one's shadow but her own — stood on the edge of the Watchpoint's helipad, impatiently watching Lena guide the transport craft in for a midnight landing. She laughed to herself at the unchanging protocols, even after half of the organization had been labelled fugitives and the remainder rebranded as mercenaries to keep the government out of their renewed operations. Radio chatter had been unusually quiet this time, but Lena, nearly pathologically incapable of lying, had assured her nothing was wrong.

Angela stepped forward with a welcoming smile as the personnel ramp lowered, but a familiar laugh made her blood turn to ice. Down the ramp sauntered a sunburnt old soldier, rifle slung over her shoulder, hair as white as the snow falling on her shoulders.

\---

The mess hall once again thundered with gaiety. Surrounded by friends and family too overjoyed by the return of their fallen comrade to notice, Angela sat still and silent as they took turns regaling Ana with their adventures in her absence, hanging on her every word when she countered with her own daring exploits. Late into the night they celebrated, trickling away one by one as the beer ran dry and exhaustion weighed heavy, until only Ana and Angela remained.

"Your eye.." murmured Angela, breaking the silence at last.

"It's true, I can't cheat at cards quite like I used to, but my other eye is still sharp enough," Ana said, eyeing the wedding band on Angela's finger and its tiny wedjat engraving.

Tears began to form in the corners of Angela's eyes as Ana stood, leaned close, threaded her fingers through the doctor's hair and pulled. As if conditioned to the command, Angela's head fell back without resistance, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut. With her pulse racing beyond healthy limits, she waited long, agonizing moments for the familiar kiss, but it never came. She felt Ana's fingers release, felt her turn and walk away.

 _"Why?_ " Angela whispered, her voice cracking.

"I have no need to conquer, once I know I still can. Besides," Ana sneered over her shoulder, holding up her cup. "I only drink tea now."

Fareeha found her wife hours later, still quietly sobbing on the mess hall floor.


End file.
